Living a Nightmare
by Stupidmuse hatesme
Summary: Harry's having dreams, are they real? He needs help, but he's having problems reaching out. Harry, 20, ignore DH, but Snape IS a Hero.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Well, this is what happens when you have recurring nightmares and need a way to purge them. this is something totally random, and i am hoping to write more.

_Italics: _the past, dreams.

**_Italic bold:_** Letter

_ My breath comes in harsh pants that grate on my ears. I can feel the very air I take in tearing through my throat. My blood pounds furiously in my ears in time with my heavy footfalls as I race through the streets. I hear something behind me and I flinch, pushing forward as I refuse to look back. For a horrible moment, my vision veers to the side, but I keep racing along the sidewalk, leaning forward and taking full advantage of my adrenaline. I trip on an unlevel crack in the sidewalk and launch myself off the sidewalk to tear across the street._

_ A horn wails as I brush by a lonely car close enough to feel the heat from the headlights. I pay no attention and dash along a side street, ignoring crosswalks and all pedestrian laws. In the back of my mind, I notice the lack of the steady slap-slap of my bag banging against my hip. The thought quickly slips away as my mind reels for the slightest moment._

_ I could have sworn I just heard gentle breathing directly behind me. There. That was definitely a warm gust of air on my ear._

_ I slam my elbow back into a gut and swerve to the left, stumbling across a sidewalk and tripping up a grass incline. "Gotcha." A smooth and velvety voice exclaims. I pitch forward into the lawn with the low sound of laughter in my ears as dirt leaps into my mouth. I wrench my eyes open and start to scramble forward on my knees…_

My blankets twist around my lower half and although I have lost cooperation of my legs, my arms collapse under my momentum and I pitch head first off of my bed onto the floor. I hang with my upper half twisted on the carpet, lower half tangled up on the bed, and try to even out my breathing from my horrendous dream. Sweat slithers down my nose and my eyes well up with tears from the stinging salty liquid as it leaks into my eyes.

I have the sudden urge to cry. I sob and slowly pull my body entirely onto the floor, wrapping my blankets around me. I disregard the fact that they had previously been tucked tightly into my mattress. I curl up, vainly trying to hide under my bed to escape the dreary light leaking from my un-curtained window. I seem to have acquired a migraine, just peachy. I'm insanely light sensitive, and from the pounding in my temples, I am undoubtedly light-headed as well. I pitifully drag myself, blankets and all, to the counter, not 4ft from my bed, that I like to call my kitchen. I shiver as carpet melts to tile and I attempt to drag myself to my feet, with the help of my precious counter. I'm fairly certain that cracking sound is me breaking the plastic from said, cheap 70's style, counter. Well, that's just depressing. I lean on the counter momentarily to regain balance, and heave my heavy blankets over my shoulders. Part of the crummy stuff (the plastic) snaps off of my now hated counter. I stare blankly at the puce plastic molding, then shuffle towards the trash can in the corner of my miniscule kitchen. I bleakly drop it in and it lands on an old banana peel with a plop. I sigh in derision.

My morning is not going well. I dig morosely in my kitchen drawer, that I have dubbed the birthday drawer, and fish out a half-eaten bar of chocolate from Honeydukes. Hermione is the best. The sweet takes the edge off of the pain in my head and I chew slowly while squinting at the insides of my refrigerator. My choices are bleak this morning, so I quickly retreat. Slowly, I trudge back to my bed and heave all of my blankets down off of my shoulders and shiver at their retreating warmth. I flop down, belly first, on my bed to hang over the side and paw through my wimpy pile of clothes for a semi-clean shirt.

_ What a dream._ I think to myself. I don't remember drinking last night after work, but I muse have. Shucking my shirt off over my head, I pull on an over-sized tee of a god awful age and turn away, failing to notice the grass and bloodstains on the otherwise pristine white button-up that I had just removed. I scan my room and pause, _where's my bag? _ I peek into the tiny bathroom then glance around my one room frantically before grabbing a pair of shoes and dashing to the door.

I wrench the flimsy thing open and stare down in open shock at the floor, where my green messenger bag lays. A note flutters down when I lift it up.

** "**_**Maybe next time you will invite me in?" **_Spiky cursive writing flashes at me and I grasp the note tightly as I back up with a gasp.

_ "Here's your room, sweet. Go on, go to bed."_

_ I stumble inside and crash onto my bed into deep slumber._

I slam the door shut and lock it tight while frantically reaching up to feel my neck.

Two puncture marks meet my finger-tips.

A/N: Harry needs help. He's going to go to... well, you can guess who. But here's my question. Should this ahem mysterious person be the one who is haunting him? Or should said (snarky, greasy, you get the point) person save him from aforementioned haunting person?


	2. Chapter 2

Sorry it's been so long, People! I've written a little here and there in my notebooks, but always forget before i get the chance to type anything up . so here's the second chapter. No planning, so writing, just typed what came into my head!

_Dreams, Memories_

**_"Writing"_**

This is AU, people. After the war Harry retreats to the Muggle World. that's the only thing that is different. Except for the fact that after Snape killed Dumbledore, Harry never saw him again. He dissappeared, and was cleared by Dumbledore's memories after the war. He was never Headmaster of Hogwarts.

For a moment, I can do nothing but stare blankly at my door. Eyeing even the cracks in the cheap wood with suspicion. But after no monsters come leaping at me from anywhere, I slowly unlock the door and open it just enough to yank my bag inside. I lock the door again and drag my bag into the kitchen, and upend it onto the sticky tiled floor.

Tips, receipts, pens, papers, and pencil shavings hit the floor. I dig in the side pockets and find my i.d. and cash exactly where it should be. As well as a monster load of change and my notebook. Everything is exactly where it should be so I flop backwards onto the floor and stare at my god awful ceiling.

I'm hoping that whatever sticky mess is on the floor doesn't transfer to my hair.

I dolefully transfer my gaze to my dreary window and try to determine the time from the bleary light that is attempting to shine through the grime. No such luck. My head hits the floor again and I give a great gusty sigh.

Peeling myself from the disgusting floor I sweep everything back into my bag and chuck it towards my bed. I look down at my pathetic outfit and frown. Well, if I'm going to look like a hobo today, I might as well finish the outfit. I peel off my slacks and fish out a dirty pair of baggy jeans. Fishing around a bit I give up on a belt (I swear my clothing pile is a monster that eats things) and use a fraying shoelace instead.

I fish a bit more chocolate from the drawer, glaring at my now busted counter top, and amble towards my tiny bathroom. The mirror is a lost cause, I decide as I peer into it vainly trying to clean dirt smudges off my face and fix my hair. I put a bit of what cover up I have left on my scar, wipe my hands on my jeans, and leave my bathroom. On my way by my mattress I bang on the thermostat, futilely, and shiver in the cold. I tug on a ratty sweatshirt and squint at the stove clock.

Damn, I think it's finally given up the ghost. Good thing today is my day off.

I snag my bag, stuff a bunch of laundry into a trash bag, and stumble out of my dreary apartment. I'd much rather do chores than stay there all day.

My door closes with a thunk and the lock turns with a squeal, but you can barely hear those sounds over those of my neighbors. I'm so used to the thunking of #41's bed frame and the shouting of #45's husband that I don't even bat an eyelash when I hear a bottle smash and the shouting changes in pitch.

I trip down the stairs because the elevators broken, it's always broken, and opt to take the side door directly to the outside. I don't feel like being pestered by the manager today. He knows I get paid in three days, he can damn well wait until then.

2 blocks get me to the laundry mat/grocery store and I toss in two loads of clothes with quarters that don't even make a dint in my supply.

I wonder what that rat faced bastard would think of me paying my rent with a bunch of quarters?

I smile morosely and lean on the grocery door, holding it open for a little old lady who doesn't even appear to notice me.

I like living the life of anonymity. It's the reason I'm here in the muggle world, instead of in the Wizarding. I got tired of being the Hero. I _like_ being the deadbeat I am in a shitty apartment in a dreadful neighborhood with a decent job. Of course, my manager doesn't know that I make $50 in tips every night and after paying my $150 rent I deposit the rest in an account for emergencies. And I also do not plan on telling him.

Hermione is worried, I don't blame her. I'm 20, and am a waiter at a restaurant. She's 20 and is the head of a brand new department she designed herself at the Ministry of Magic. The department of researching dry old musty things, or something or rather. And Ron is a slap bang Auror. If I had an owl, I'd imagine I'd get one every day or two from him continuously asking me why I am not an Auror also.

I've told him time and time again, why. He just doesn't want to hear it. I want to have a job that I have achieved on my own merits. I am just dysfunctional enough that waiting has turned out to be my only option, and I'm okay with that.

I browse the shelves, thinking about what I have in my fridge. Tapping my list I think of that small list. 3 eggs, a half a bottle of ketchup, strawberry jelly, rotten milk, a couple slices of ham, and a shred or two of cheese. I grab a bunch of sandwich makings and stuff them into a handbasket, debating about my cupboard. Milk, cereal, oatmeal, and apple juice follow. I tally up my budget and decide that this food should last me another week, at least, and I head to the check out.

The girl at the counter doesn't even appear to recognize me. Which is nice, but odd considering I come in every other day or so. And she's worked here since I move in down the street, at least. Which was when I was 18. After Voldemort. And Ginny. And all those idiots that drove me out of that blasted world.

Heck, I don't even think I've TOUCHED my wand since I apparated to the street outside the Leaky Cauldron. I put all of my artifacts from the Wizarding world into a shoe box and entrusted them to Tom the owner of the Leaky Cauldron. I wouldn't be surprised if he donated them to some Harry Potter memorial or something. And frankly? I couldn't care less.

The girl interrupts my musings, sounding exasperated.

"$24.50, SIR."

"Oh, Sorry." I murmur. I wonder how many times she repeated that until I answered?

I fork over that amount, at least $5 of that in change. Hey, I have more than that, but why let thieves know that? It's better to let them think I scraped change out of someone's couch, or something.

Less likely to get mugged in this neighborhood if I take precautions.

I sit with my two bags of groceries in the Laundromat and wish I had thought to bring a book or something. I lean back and close my eyes for just a moment….and am jerked awake by a buzzing sound.

"Mr., you're laundry is done." A little boy pears at me from a few seats away and I smile hesitantly. I glance at the clock and it informs me that it's almost 4. I want to get home soon, it gets dark at 5. So I put my laundry in the dryer for 20 minutes.

The boy and I engage in a staring match, so the time passes fast.

"You're laundry isn't even _dry_, Mr.!" The boy exclaims as he helps me stuff laundry back into my bag while I hold it open.

I smile wryly at him. "I'm afraid of the dark, kid. So I'm willing to live with damp clothes to get there before it hits. 'sides," I tap my glasses. "I'm practically blind in twilight with these."

He boggles at me a moment and I tie up my bag, bidding him farewell. "Stay outa trouble kid, all right?"

His eager face is pressed against the window as I hurry down the street, only glancing back once. I'm not staying out, tonight.

I hurry up the stairs, more paranoid than usual. Normal everyday sounds make me jump. Like # 32's singing, and #37's banging about as he rearranges his furniture for the 3rd time this week. #45's bloodcurdling scream almost makes me jump out of my skin and I run the last few meters to my door, jamming the key into the lock a few times before I succeed. A few more tries are needed to unlock the door, including a little help from my hip underneath the door handle. The door squeaks open and I slam it shut behind me with my foot, glad that I grabbed my mail while I was downstairs.

The lock grates under my fingertips and I ditch the mail on the countertop while I put away my groceries. That doesn't take very long. So I wrench my laundry rack out front behind my monster clothes pile that is wedged between the wall, with it's one bleak window, and my mattress. It, the rack, comes free with an ominous creak, but does not appear to have any cracks or defects. I set it up in my bathtub and somehow manage to hang all of my clothes on it.

Amazing, must be a miracle type day.

I trudge back to my kitchen, groping for the dirty string hanging on the ceiling to turn on the ceiling to turn on the equally dirty bare bulb. The sharp light makes me cringe, but I'm glad for it as I ruffle through my mail. 4 are hefty envelopes of parchment that I set to the side, 3 are curiously light muggle envelopes, 1 a postcard, and the last a magazine. I trash 2 of the muggles as junk mail, and keep the 3rd as it's information on the health insurance I applied for a month ago. The postcard I smile fondly at, as it's from Neville.

**"_Hiya Harry! Am on my way through Egypt right now, studying plants on the edge of the Nile. Am onto other parts of Africa soon! I'll let you know when I get back to London, and maybe we can get together for tea? Neville."_**

The magazine is also trash. It's Victoria secret. Why the hell I need that, is beyond me. Now I eye the parchment with a wary eye. 2 are from Ron and Hermione, I expect those on a regular basis and set those aside. Another is from the Minister, which I set in the junk pile. The last simply says **"Harry"** on the front, and is sealed on the back with two entwined serpents.

I do not recognize the seal.

I take all three letters with me to my bed and read Ron's first. It's just the usual about his job, and the most recent bad guys he's captured, and how much he misses me, and how I should be his partner and be working with him, and how bored he is without me, and how lame paper work is, and did he mention I should be an Auror? I smile a tiny smile and move on to Hermione's.

Hers explains some new tome that they recently found in the depths of a muggle library with a lot of archaic Wizarding spells in it that she is translating from Old English. She seems rather distracted, and I can't blame her. This sounds like an exciting find.

If I was the least bit interested in that sort of thing, of course.

She promises that she'll send more sweets very soon, and maybe some more of Molly's baking and signs off with her usually loopy affair that always brings a smile to my face because of the very out of place heart above her 'I'.

I untie the jeans, putting off the last letter. The lights flicker as I huddle under the blanket and only steady when I unseal the envelope. The letter falls out of the parchment like butter into my hands and green ink glints off of the page.

**"_You will be mine soon, my sweet."_**

Then the lights go out.


	3. Visit 1

Wind whistles past my window as I shiver under my blanket. The last time the power went out in the shit hole of an apartment complex was when some drunk driver smashed into a telephone pole.

From the lack of screeching brakes and sirens, I doubt that's the case.

Dark seems to have fallen quickly, the only light in the room is the vestigial glow from twilight glinting off of my cheap fake metal edged counters. The neighboring apartments are strangely quiet. In fact, as I strain my ears, I can hear no sound besides the wind.

Then come the footsteps in the corridor.

They are coming not from the stairs, but from the window that is usually cracked at the end of the hall. That doesn't surprise me that much, considering outside that window is a fire escape. What doesn't surprise me is that I am on the top floor, the fire escape doesn't reach the ground, and why would anyone from the lower floors use it to go upstairs?

The footsteps come closer and closer and I clutch my comforter and tattered sheet tigher around my shoulders, shivering in fear. I might seem rather uncaring, but I'm just tired. I still feel, and fear.

And right now, I'm terrified.

The footsteps stop outside my door and then all I can hear is my ragged breaths.

"Harry." Calls a familiar voice.

I struggle not to answer it's call.

"Harry, let me in. Invite me in."

"Who are you?" I croak.

Dry laughter greets my ears.

"If you let me in, you can see me for yourself Harry."

"No." My voice breaks and I try again, desperately ignoring the throbbing puncture wounds on the side of my neck. "No. I will not invite you in."

The silence is stagnant, but I do not sense unhappiness or anger. Only amusement.

"Very well Harry, I shall come again at a later date."

His footsteps retreat down the hall, but I stay up, shivering, for a long time afterwards. I think I finally passes out leaned up against the wall, from exhaustion. Sleep, is blissfully nightmare free as I sink into her velvety depths.


	4. Chapter 4

AUTHORS NOTE: I made an honest mistake in chapter 2...Harry doesn't have a tub . Just imagine that he put the laundry rack...wherever. And I just learned today that they don't say Laundry Mat or Laundromat in the UK, it's Launderette (goodness knows why) So i'm going to try it...You've been warned: Absolutely nothing important happens in this chapter .

* * *

I wake feeling much better than the day before. I don't feel as though I am recovering from a drinking binge anymore, which is a relief.

A streak on my murky window allows a slash of light into my room and it just so happens to hit me directly in my eyes. Cursing my luck I let an arm flop over my face. My mattress squeaks and groans and I wonder how much better it would be if I had a box mattress. It was either the frame or the box, you can guess what I chose.

I've never been afraid of monsters under the bed, and I wanted storage space. I've never regretted it, but the squealing _does_ get annoying.

I roll over, causing more protesting sounds, and grope in my monster pile of laundry for my glasses. I place them on my face, smudges and all, and squint into my dingy kitchen.

Oh yeah, the clock on the stove went out yesterday.

For waking up feeling better than yesterday (which doesn't take much) I am in a pretty bad state. My wife beater is drenched with sweat and my skin feels cold and clammy. I stand next to my bed and pause to wrap my arms around my chest, shuddering. I don't think I want to remember what my nightmares were, to be honest.

Today is a work day. I wander down the hallway to bang on a random door to find out the time and discover that it's noon; which gives me 4 hours to get ready. I check the clothes on the rack and find them still damp. Shame, especially since I have more moldering in the trash bags. I stuff all the laundry back in the bags, and gather another dirty bag and tie them. Belatedly I realize I'm still in my boxers and tank so I toss on a sweatshirt and sweatpants and trip down the stairs in some old beaten up sandals.

Hermione says that it's a shame how I live. But after living in Petunia's sterile world for so long, I just can't bring myself to do the same. If anything, the fact that she kept me _separate_ from said world, in either my dusty closet or abandoned second bedroom, probably has molded me into the slob I am today. Every time Hermione brings up my disgusting habits I bring up the fact that at least I do not ditch rotting food around my flat and I do my dishes promptly.

She counters that I have one cup and a plate and so me doing dishes right away does not count as being very responsible.

I trip down the stairs with my three bags and realize that I have forgotten my satchel. Frantically I sprint up the stairs empty-handed and find my door unlocked. I snatch the key from the counter and my bag from the floor and slam out of my apartment. If you can call a closet without a shower an apartment.

When I reach the second floor I find two grimy children giggling and jumping on my bags.

"Hey!" I protest.

They jump away, white faced, and disappear down the hall. I feel bad for scaring them, to be honest.

The launderette is empty when I arrive, but the steady and comforting thunk thunk of clothes in the dryer greets me when I open the door. I ditch two bags in some dryers and the other smaller one in the washer and depart to find a shower. Sometimes I go to a friend's, but sadly today I have to chance the shower at the crappy Hotel I live at. It's a public Toilet and I have to insert quarters to give me iced water, lukewarm at best.

Luckily it's unoccupied.

_Hermione would have a cow if she realized that I wash with only a bar of soap._

My hands are frantic and jittery, pressing the bar too hard against my skin. Shivering under the cold water my skin becomes raw with fingernail marks and too much scrubbing. The shower sputters to a stop and I stare blankly at the sliver of soap left in my hand as slightly pink water swirls down the drain. "Damn, didn't get to my hair."

Slapping my feet on the grimy chilled tiles I exit the shower and roughly dries myself with my small towel. Efficiently I tousles my hair first then whip the scratchy thing along the rest of my body, ignoring the stings from my self-inflicted wounds.

The wounds on the side of my neck beat a tattoo with my heart. I shivers and wriggles into fresh clothing for work: just a simple white button down and black slacks. Eminently better than my normal clothes, but nothing flashy.

I wriggle my damp feet into a pair of socks and then lace them into my black work tennis shoes and shoulders my way into the hallways. #41 is making more noise again. But #45 is oddly quiet. The husband must be at work. Where I should be heading soon. With my faithful bag on my shoulder I trip down the stairs and up the street back to the launderette and switch my clothes from the washer to the drier, quarters clanking merrily in my pocket. More merrily than my mood, I'd wager.

I pick the least greasy chair to sit in and struggle to stay up straight in the shiny slick bucket chair that seems the staple of all launderettes.

I fail, and my head hits the back with a clunk, the only thing keeping me from sliding straight onto the floor. I close my eyes and pretend that there aren't driers sounding in the background. I don't think about much. Just about cool breezes and shadows from real trees, not ones jammed into the ground in a park or on the sidewalk. The tinkle of laughter next to the lake at Hogwarts.

I sigh, and the buzzer rings.

I jam all of my clothes into my rather worse for wear plastic garbage bag and tie it firmly. The room is empty when I leave, only a lonely drier sounding its call to no one. There's nothing to do in my apartment. So I ditch the bag on my bed, the musty clothes on my rack and slam out the door for work.

Hopefully I can get a ride home afterwards.


End file.
